Parallel

by Lauren Miller

  “Are those even real classes?” I ask him.

  “Barely,” Tyler replies, polishing off the last of his sandwiches.

  “What is he doing teaching here?” Caitlin is still staring at my schedule. “I know there was pressure for him to resign, but how did he end up down here?”

  “Resign from where?” I ask.

  “Yale,” Caitlin replies. “He has tenure there.” She frowns. “Had tenure.”

  “What, did he molest a student or something?” Tyler jokes. Caitlin glares at him.

  “No, he did not molest a student. He published a book the scientific establishment couldn’t stomach, mostly because it read like the plot of a sci-fi novel. When they weren’t able to dismantle his theory, they laughed at it. And him.”

  “What’s the theory?” I ask.

  “It has to do with parallel universes,” Caitlin replies. “Dr. Mann claims it’s possible for them to—”

  “Hiii, Tyler!” Caitlin’s expression instantly turns sour. Neither of us has to look to know who the voice belongs to. Ilana Cassidy, quite possibly the least likable and most genuinely mean-spirited person on the planet. Apparently, the fact that Ilana is the devil incarnate was not enough to keep Tyler from hooking up with her at Max Levine’s annual end-of-summer party, giving Ilana the mistaken impression that she and Tyler are a couple now. Ilana is standing at the foot of the hill, hands on her bony hips, posing like she’s on the red carpet.

  “Is she expecting paparazzi?” Caitlin mutters under her breath. The only person who likes Ilana less than I do is Caitlin.

  Ilana’s eyes dart to Caitlin. In an odd twist of fate, the only person whose approval Ilana craves is Caitlin, which has everything to do with Caitlin’s runway-worthy wardrobe. Ilana sees me watching her and glowers. “What are you looking at?” I know better than to respond.

  “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Tyler calls to Ilana. “We’re sort of in the middle of something.”

  A look of annoyance flashes across Ilana’s face, but she covers it with a plastic smile. “Yeah, okay!” she chirps. “Text me!”

  Tyler gives her a noncommittal wave, then turns back to his lunch.

  “I still can’t believe you hooked up with her,” Caitlin says to Tyler when Ilana is out of earshot, her tone harsh.

  “I don’t know why you hate her so much,” Tyler replies. “She’s not that bad.”

  “Oh, yes. She is.”

  “You know, you guys kinda look alike,” Tyler says casually, pulling the top off his yogurt. He licks blue yogurt off the little aluminum lid, then wads it up into a little ball and tosses it into the nearest trash can, pretending not to notice that Caitlin is glaring at him.

  “We do not.”

  “The blond hair, the blue eyes . . .” Tyler grins. “You two could be sisters.”

  I can’t help but laugh. It’s true that Caitlin and Ilana are both blond haired and blue eyed, but they look nothing alike. Caitlin is a replica of her mother—tall, lanky, beautiful in an I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-threw-this-on way. Ilana, on the other hand, always looks like she just spent two hours in the bathroom (and about four hours at the gym) trying to achieve Barbie-doll beauty. Her five-foot-two-inch frame has been spun and kickboxed down to kids’ department size, and her frizzy brown hair has been bleached and straightened into submission, so that it now hangs limply at her bony shoulders.

  Caitlin makes a face and punches Tyler in the shoulder. He catches her fist in his and holds it for a couple of beats longer than he has to. That’s when it happens. Something passes between them. Something I’ve never noticed before. Something so slight, it’s nearly imperceptible . . .

  Chemistry.

  The moment the thought pops into my mind, I’m certain of it. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. It’s like this intense gut feeling, an intuition so strong it almost feels like déjà vu. Is that why Tyler asked me yesterday if Caitlin had met anyone at the lab this summer? I assumed it was because he wanted to tease her about it (Tyler has no shortage of nerd jokes), but now I wonder if he had other reasons. And Caitlin has been disproportionately critical of the Ilana thing, catty when she’s normally not.

  “So you’re saying Caitlin is your type, then,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “You can’t have Caitlin, so you’re settling for Ilana.”

  Both Tyler and Caitlin look at me in surprise. We don’t joke like this. Ever. Is it me, or did Tyler’s cheeks just get rosier? It’s awkward for an instant. Then Tyler smiles, and the awkwardness evaporates.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, tugging Caitlin toward him, playing into my joke. “Ilana is filling my Caitlin-shaped void.”

  “Last I checked, I wasn’t shaped like a lollipop,” Caitlin retorts, swatting him away. Her tone is sharp and bitchy and not like her at all. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she winces. “Sorry. That was mean.”

  “The girl has pictures of Mary-Kate Olsen taped to the inside of her locker,” Tyler points out. “I’m pretty sure ‘lollipop’ is what she’s going for.”

  Caitlin looks at her watch. “I should go,” she says. “I need to stop by DeWitt’s office before class.” Her mention of the guidance counselor’s name sends me back into panic mode. Astronomy starts in ten minutes.

  “Please tell me you’re switching into my class,” I beg. “You can learn from your idol and tutor me at the same time.”

  “I wish,” she replies. “But I already took it with Kang freshman year. There’s no way they’ll let me take it twice.”

  “So what’re you switching?”

  “Not switching. Just adding. I want to see if they’ll let me double up sixth period.”

  “You want to take two classes at once?” I ask. I’ve seen Caitlin’s schedule. It’s intense.

  “Neither is offered spring semester,” she says nonchalantly. “So, yeah. Why not?”

  I look over at Tyler. He just shrugs.

  “News flash, Barnes. She’s insane.”

  I get to fifth period a few minutes early, but the room is already full. Caitlin was right about the freshmen; about half the faces look young and scared. Another third are kids I know, probably other History of Music refugees. The rest I recognize as science-track brainiacs who will no doubt destroy the grading curve for the rest of us. I look around for an empty seat.

  There’s only one, in the very back row, next to a guy I’ve never seen before. Blond crew cut, dark brown eyes, average-looking features. Light blue T-shirt tucked into dark green cargo pants that have about five too many pockets. White Converse One Stars (the low kind) that look like they just came out of the box. His vibe is definitely dorky, but cute dorky. The way Max Levine was before he grew his hair out and started smoking truckloads of pot. Since he looks too old to be a freshman, I decide he must be new.

  Astronomy Boy sees me looking at him and smiles. He points at the empty seat.

  “Hey,” he says as I approach. “I’m Josh.”

  “I’m Abby.” Why am I suddenly nervous?

  “Popular class,” Josh remarks, glancing around the crowded room. “That means it’s either really good or really easy.”

  “Definitely not easy,” I reply. “Unless you’re on the science track, in which case ‘easy’ is a relative term.”

  “Oh, right,” Josh says. “The whole magnet school thing. Are you in the science program?”

  “Ha. No. Nowhere close. I’ve never met a science class I didn’t hate.”

  “So what’re you doing in astronomy?”

  “An unfortunate twist of fate,” I reply, distracted by the tiny mole beneath his left eye, just below his lash line. It’s infinitesimal, not more than a pinprick, but that little mark somehow elevates his face from average to adorable. Or maybe it’s the smattering of pale freckles on his nose. Or the perfect shape of his bottom lip.

  The mole does a little dance as his eyebrows shoot up. “Fate, huh? This must be a pretty important class for you, then.” I can’t tell whether h
e’s teasing.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Are you here by fate or choice?”

  “Hmm. I guess I’d have to say choice. This was the first class I signed up for.”

  “Oh, so you’re into self-torture, then.”

  Josh laughs out loud. His laugh, deeper than his voice, reminds me of the rich sweetness of my mom’s gingerbread. I angle my knees toward him, wishing his were close enough to touch. “I mean, c’mon—what’s cooler than the universe?” he says. “It’s this great, big, never-ending mystery that astronomers and cosmologists spend their whole lives trying to solve. And after all that discovery and revelation, there’s always more to figure out.” His mouth widens into a boyish grin. “I love that.”

  I match his grin. “I take it you were one of those kids with a telescope in your bedroom,” I tease. “And let me guess . . . glow-in-the-dark star stickers on your ceiling?”

  “Guilty,” he says, as the lights dim.

  “Velcome to Prinzeeples of Astronomy!” a voice booms, the words flecked with German. “Let zee fun begin!” Dr. Mann claps his hands together with glee, earning some muffled laughter from the back of the room.

  Our teacher is shorter than I expected but otherwise looks like every photograph I’ve ever seen of Albert Einstein: wild gray hair, huge round eyes, unruly eyebrows. In his brown tweed suit with suede patches on the elbows, he’s the perfect incarnation of a nutty professor. Would his colleagues at Yale have laughed at him if he’d looked a little less like one?

  Dr. Mann holds up a stack of papers. “This is the syllabus for this course,” he says as he hands the stack to a girl in the front row. “Our task is not to master the topics on this list, although that is certainly a worthy pursuit and one well worth the discipline it requires.” He pauses, surveying the room. He has our attention. “Rather, our work will be focused on the larger picture. The big questions. I just ask this: No matter what the concept, you commit yourselves to this principle.” He turns on his heels and strides to the overhead projector, where he begins to write with sharp, definitive motions. When he’s finished, he flicks on the light. Two words, all caps, appear on the white screen:

  LOOK DEEPER

  “No cross-country practice?” My mom is at the kitchen table paying bills when I come through the back door.

  “Coach canceled it,” I tell her, setting my bag and keys on the counter. “I think he was spooked by the earthquake. What are you doing home so early?”

  “The museum was closed today,” Mom replies. “We had a water main break.” She takes off her reading glasses and rubs her eyes.

  “Uh-oh. How bad was the damage?”

  “Not nearly as bad as it could’ve been, thankfully. An entire wing flooded, but there was only an inch or so of water, so the collection wasn’t affected. We’re in a lot better shape than MoMA,” she says. “They had an electrical fire and lost four pieces.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s terrible.”

  “I know. But listen to this: the four pieces they lost were the two hanging on each side of Dali’s Persistence of Memory—you know, the painting your dad and I were looking at when we met. The fire started behind that wall.”

  “But the Dali survived?” I can tell by her tone that it must have.

  She nods. “More than survived,” she says. “No damage at all. Not even from the smoke.” She smiles. “Your dad, of course, thinks it means something. He just hasn’t decided what yet.” She stands up from the table and stretches her back. On the TV mounted beneath our kitchen cabinets, a news reporter is talking about the earthquakes. The banner at the bottom of the screen reads EARTHQUAKE ROCKS THE GLOBE.

  “Do they know what caused it?” I ask, nodding at the TV.

  “They’re calling it a ‘fluke,’ if you can believe it. Which I’d say means they don’t have a clue.” She pulls open the fridge and examines its contents. “Want a snack?”

  “Sure,” I say, suddenly ravenous. I hop up on the counter, then reach down to pull off my boots.

  “So?” Mom asks, scooping hummus into the clay bowl my dad painted in Mexico last summer. We have a dozen dip bowls, but my mom always reaches for this one. “Am I allowed to ask for details?” She tosses me a bag of mini carrots.

  “About my day? Sure.” I crunch on a carrot. “I arrived just in time to miss the entire parking lot drawing. Good news is, I don’t have to worry about exercise this year, because I’ll get plenty of it hiking to and from the annex lot.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  “Eh, it’s okay,” I reply, reaching for another carrot.

  “How about the rest of your day?” Mom asks. “You’re happy with that schedule you worked so hard on?”

  I open my mouth to complain about my unwelcome astronomy class, and Josh pops into my head. Josh whose last name I don’t even know. Astronomy Boy. My stomach does a little flip-flop at the thought of him.

  “I had to change it,” I tell her. “Good-bye, History of Music. Hello, Principles of Astronomy.”

  My mom is clearly puzzled by my smile. “Is this a good thing?”

  “I dunno,” I admit. “The teacher seems cool, and . . .” I hesitate, knowing that if I mention Josh, he will become the topic du jour.

  “And . . . ?”

  My cell phone rings from inside my bag.

  “Tell Caitlin I said hello,” Mom says, sitting back down at the table.

  “I will.” I grab one last carrot, then hop off the counter. “Thanks for the snack.” I dig my phone out of my bag and answer it. “Hey.”

  “UGH. I literally JUST pulled out of the parking lot.”

  Bag and boots in hand, I wave to my mom and head up to my bedroom.

  “I’m sure they’d let you switch your spot for one in the annex,” I say, teasing, knowing Caitlin would rather sit in her car for an hour than walk the quarter mile to the annex lot, for two main reasons: She lives in four-inch heels, and she travels with about thirty pounds’ worth of science textbooks in her bag.

  “Very funny. So how was astronomy? What’d you think of Dr. Mann?”

  “The man used the words ‘kerfuffle’ and ‘tomfoolery’ with a straight face,” I reply. “What’s not to like?”

  “Did he say why he’s at Brookside?”

  “A kerfuffle with the Yale administration.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. But it’s an awesome word, right?” I drop my bag and boots on my bedroom carpet and sprawl out on my stomach on my bed. “I think you were right about the pressure to resign. All he said was academia is not what it used to be, and that he wanted to spend some time with ‘unadulterated minds.’ He picked Atlanta because his daughter lives down here.”

  “I wish I were his daughter,” Caitlin says wistfully. “All that Nobel-worthy DNA.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell your dad that.” I roll over onto my back, propping myself up with the oversized Cheshire Cat pillow I’ve had since I was nine. He was supposed to go to Goodwill when I repainted my room last year, but he’s still here, big and pink and frayed around the mouth, holding court in the center of my blue-and-white-striped bed. “Hey, do you know where I can get some of those glow-in-the-dark stars?” I ask. “You know, the kind you can stick on your ceiling?”

  “One day of astronomy and already you want stars on your ceiling?”

  “This is me, embracing science. Go with it.”

  “Can your stargazing wait until Thursday?” Caitlin asks. “I’m going to Fernbank for this young scientists thing. I’ll get you some from the planetarium gift store.”

  “Thanks! It can be my birthday present.”

  “Nope. Already have that, wrapped and ready to be brought to dinner tomorrow night with your cake.” Caitlin’s been getting me the same mint chocolate chip ice cream cake from Baskin-Robbins every year since seventh grade, and each year, we devour the entire thing in one sitting. It’s a highly caloric rite of passage we refuse to abandon. The rest of the day is always pretty anticlimactic, since by
the time my birthday rolls around, everyone else in my grade has already had theirs. Turning seventeen (or sixteen or fifteen) is much less exciting when everyone else has already done it. “Hey, I’m pulling into my driveway,” Caitlin says. “Talk later?”

  “Yup.” There’s a click, and she’s gone. Phone still pressed to my ear, I stare up at the ceiling, envisioning my future neon galaxy.

  That night, I have trouble falling asleep. At ten past midnight, I give up. Very careful not to wake my parents, I make my way through the kitchen to the door that opens onto our deck. Outside, it’s both colder and quieter than I expect it to be. The wind picks up, icy against my bare legs, and I shiver in my thin T-shirt. I hug my arms close to my body. “Happy birthday,” I whisper in the darkness.

  Above me, the dark, moonless expanse is thick with stars. I can’t remember the last time I noticed the night sky. When I was younger, I was enthralled by it, awed by its scale and mystery. On clear nights, I’d sit out here for hours, connecting the dots with my fingers, bringing animals and objects to life in my mind, while my dad sat beside me, sketching out my creations in his notebook, describing the exact location of each so none would be lost or forgotten. My creatures are up there now, right where I left them. Letting my head fall back, I trace their outlines with my fingertips, wishing I knew the real constellations.

  My vision blurs as I stare, unblinking, at the starry sky. And then, out of nowhere, a strange sense of purpose overtakes me. Like a thunderclap, the words THIS IS IT reverberate in my brain. I blink—hard—and the sky comes into sharp focus. I blink again, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. What is it? But the stars aren’t giving anything away.

  3

  HERE

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2009

  (my eighteenth birthday)

  My heart is pounding so violently that my ribs ache.

  I whip my head to the right and see a twin-size bed a few feet away, pushed up against another white wall, this one decorated with a framed black-and-white photograph of the Seattle Space Needle. The bed is unmade and its flowered sheets look slept in, and the clock on the windowsill next to it is blinking 12:00. There is no sign of the bed’s owner.